


Everything I Want

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Talia, Alternate Universe, Angst, Beta Derek, Canon Divergence, Clients to lovers, Corporate CEO Derek, Everyone lives, Fluff, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Prostitute Stiles, Slow Burn, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-26 11:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12556116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's business, it's all he has time for, but Derek can't deny that something feels different every time Stiles returns to the quiet space of his apartment, and Derek can't deny that every time Stiles leaves, there's hesitation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Long time Teen Wolf reader, first time fanfic poster, so I hope y'all go easy on me. My bf and I just finished the last season, and it ignited my Sterek feelings all over again.
> 
> I plan to update probly once a week, as quick as my awesome beta can get stuff back to me, but I'm also a tortured med student so things might take longer than normal, but I promise to try not to go too long between updates.
> 
> Let me know if I missed any tags.

“Rummaging in our souls, we often dig up something that ought to have lain there unnoticed. ”  
― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

\--- 

There’s a moment of consideration when Derek sees the predatory look on his sister’s face, but he’s used to Laura’s antics by now, and it has been quite a while since he’s really questioned things she hands him.

It’s a business card, all black, the writing on the front embossed silver. **Stiles**

There’s a phone number along with it, and an email.

“What’s this supposed to be?” he asks, his tone giving away how exhausted he is. Super-human strength and ability to regenerate can’t entirely combat the eighteen hour days he’s been putting in the last three weeks. Everything hurts.

“Something to help you unwind. Seriously, you’re so fucking tight you’re about to start shitting diamonds, Derek.”

He gives her a dry, unimpressed stare. “Thank you,” he says mildly. “I’m glad you care so much about what comes out of my—”

“The last thing we need is for you to go feral-wolf on the next person who walks in here smelling off.”

Derek tries not to wince. It isn’t his fault the intern was both twitchy, and terrified of working with werewolves. His mother should have smelled it on the guy, shouldn’t have _hired_ him if he was going to be freaking out every time Derek got tired and a little extra pointy at some ends. But the whimpering and the flinching combined with the _smell_ of him nearly pushed Derek to the edge.

So there went another one with a fat settlement to keep the incident out of the news.

Business as usual.

“Laura, I really don’t have time for your…”

“You and I both know you’re not going to go out and unwind, right? Let’s be realistic here.” She crosses her arms over her chest and stares until he gives a half-conceding shrug. “So call this number, okay. He’s expensive—but you can afford it, and I can guarantee he can shave at least ten years off of…all that,” she waves her hand around his face, and he bats her away.

“Is this a…is this a prostitute?” he asks, his voice going strangely choked and hoarse.

She grins at him. “They prefer to be called escorts these days.”

“Fucking,” he groans, slapping the card back on the desk and shoving it toward where she was sitting. “I’m not calling a hooker to unwind. If mom knew what you were up to…”

“She’d probably give me some kind of award for thinking of it,” Laura answers, another toothy grin.

Derek sighs, wanting to argue, but their parents have always been a little disturbingly sex-positive and open about it. He’s had conversations with them which still made him blush, well into his late twenties. “I don’t want this.”

“Yes, you do. Trust me. He knows his way around bodies. He knows his way around most things, actually. Especially werewolf things. And you really, really need this. You’ll thank me later.” With that, she hops off the desk and wanders out of his office with a waggle of her fingers.

He hates his family so, so much.

*** 

He doesn’t know why he calls. Or well, he didn’t want to admit why he called. And so he says almost absolutely nothing apart from a grunt of hello when the door swings open to reveal Stiles. He looks young, but smells older than he looks. Cocky with a hint of trepidation—self-preservation, probably, which is a good quality to have in the company of werewolves. He’s nearly as tall as Derek, lithe and thin, but under his Henley Derek can see the curve of taut muscle and he finds himself wanting to lick the sweatier parts of him to see if he tastes as good as he smells.

Stiles’ eyes are big and brown, owlish as they take Derek in with a sweeping gaze, and Derek does not miss the way Stiles licks his lips as he pushes past Derek’s form and closes the door with a firm _click_.

Neither of them say a word.

Neither of them have to.

Derek can smell it between them. Whatever this is about to be, it’s going to last a long, long time.

*** 

**Two years and eight months later**

“Fuck. Oh my god right there just…” Stiles claws at the sheets as Derek’s fingers dig into his hips, adjusting Stiles one last time so he can really, really get him. The smell of sweat and desire and submission is strong in the room, making Derek almost drunk on it as Stiles’ back arches and he begs for more.

Then he goes quiet as his orgasm approaches. Derek can feel it just under his skin, the way Stiles lights up just before it hits. There’s nothing but a symphony of Stiles’ groaning, Derek’s grunting, and the faint, slap of sweaty skin against sweaty skin.

Derek’s come two times already, but he’s about to hit his third, and yeah…yeah. “God, fuck,” he grunts, grinding down hard as his cock punches the orgasm out of Stiles.

Come and sweat slick, the two of them tumble to the bed and Derek closes his eyes as he feels Stiles’ nimble fingers taking care of the clean-up. It wasn’t something included in the price or anything, but shortly after his first call to Stiles, Derek had learned what the escort liked best. Taking care of Derek is one of those things.

Once the final swipe of the warm wash cloth passes his skin, Derek pushes up on his elbow and watches Stiles put everything into his bag, zipping it up and throwing it on the end of the bed. The money he pays—a lot, and frequent—gives him a cuddle session after if he wants it. 

The wolf inside him wants it. It’s wanted to mark and claim Stiles as his own for a while now, though it’s easy to tamp that down. Being a werewolf is complicated in itself, especially since his family’s company works in tandem with the human world, and as much as he wants to give in to his nature more often than not, it wouldn’t be good for public image. He’s a beta, and spent a life time trying to prove himself a worthy man _and_ a worthy wolf.

With Stiles, it’s uncomplicated. He was never sure where the hell Laura found him, considering Stiles only works with men, but somehow—almost as if by magic, though Derek has slept with witches before and they were never as good as this—Stiles seems to know anything and everything he wants. Can make him howl, make music out of his pleasure until every nerve ending is singing, and he’s near tears.

He’s always sweet after. Always. He never hesitates to compliment and stroke Derek’s skin until they’ve both come down from the post-coital high. And he’s never, ever overstayed his welcome.

Secretly, Derek isn’t entirely sure it’s possible for Stiles to overstay his welcome, but they’ve never put it to the test.

With a grunt, Stiles flops back onto the bed, rubbing his head onto Derek’s pillow as though he knows it’ll put Derek to sleep easier. “That was fucking…something.”

Derek says nothing, raises an eyebrow, mouth in a thin line. “Well, it was me fucking you.”

“Har-dee-har-har, Sourwolf,” Stiles mutters, but he can’t seem to help his smile. Turning, he runs the tips of his fingers down the line of Derek’s body and sighs. “God, I just want to run my tongue over you. Is that weird? Are werewolf habits sexually transmitted?”

“No. It probably means you’re just a weirdo.”

“That’s probably it.” Stiles’ smile is blinding, and Derek feels it like a punch to the solar-plexus.

He doesn’t give in to his base urges to nuzzle, to scent him. He just breathes through it and lays back, staring at the textured ceiling.

“I thought you should know I’m going out of town next week. I’ll be gone for a month.” The tone Stiles’ uses is cautious, like he’s afraid of hurting Derek’s feelings. 

And in truth, it does hurt in a strange way. Derek doesn’t want him to go—he never wants him to go. But his life is far too complicated for anything more than just this. He sometimes wonders if Stiles can see through it, under everything, under the angry glowers and the gruff, one-word answers. He wonders if Stiles knows how much he wants something more than just this. How afraid he is to ask for it.

“Cheer up, grumpy-wolf,” Stiles says, and pokes at the corners of Derek’s mouth.

Derek says nothing, doesn’t give in.

“Some day I’ll get you to smile,” Stiles says, then pushes himself up. “Anyway, I have to get going. Packing and carefully measuring out all my liquids so they don’t give me the full-body search.” With a wink, he’s up, and dressing, and getting ready to leave. Derek says nothing, just watches with hooded eyes and a grimace. “You want me to text you when I get back?”

_Yes._ “Do what you want.”

Stiles laughs, then pounces on Derek, kissing him long, drawn out, warm and sweet. “I want to text you when I get back. Don’t miss me too much.”

“I never miss you.” _A lie, but Stiles can’t hear that._

Stiles gives him an almost-hard pat on the cheek, nearly a slap. “Have a good few weeks. I’ll talk to you soon.”

The wolf inside Derek howls and howls. But he has no claim, no rights, and so he suffers in silence until the smell of Stiles fades to something in the background, and he’s able to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a total disaster-wolf, but he gets better. I promise not to draw out the angst for too long. Also sorry about the erratic updates y'all, my beta is kind of busy and it's November so I'm in school hell. But I'll update as often as I can.

“You need to get laid.”

“I need to get a coffee.” It’s his only retort, because it has, in fact, been almost a month since he’d had anything of the _laid_ variety happening. But Stiles hasn’t texted about his return, and Derek’s not the sort to text pleasantries like good mornings and good nights. That’s not how their relationship works, and Derek doesn’t want to cross a line, no matter how often Stiles insinuates that it might actually be okay for Derek to send him the occasional photo or random message.

Derek doesn’t sleep well most nights, and worse when things like the Alpha Pack are in town trying to “negotiate” business. Talia and Laura have them handled, mostly, but there’s something almost feral about them, something about the way they _look_ at the Hales that makes Derek uneasy and a little afraid.

He used to have night terrors involving the death of his entire family, and even though things are handled in the conference room these days instead of an open field with fangs and claws, Derek can’t help but want to buckle under the threat of loss. It’s a werewolf thing, he knows that. You’re only as strong as your pack. The thought of being without one is like a physical wound.

They’re gone now, though, the deal finished and Derek’s only got to process the paperwork which he can do in his sleep. So he ignores Laura snickering at him and takes the elevator down to the lobby, and strolls down the street to one of his favorite cafés for lunch.

The afternoon seemed standard. He got a sandwich, a chocolate chip muffin, a latte, and he’s got a nice window seat not too close to the door, but close enough he can smell whatever’s on the breeze if he needs to whenever it opens. He’s halfway into this crappy romance novel he stole out of Laura’s desk when something tugs on his pant leg.

His eyes flicker down, and it’s a child. He startles, and his nostrils flare, taking in the scent. Not human, not pack, not werewolf. Some sort of shifter. Too young to have properly changed just yet. The child looks alone, a little girl with wild black curls, and olive skin, and deep eyes so brown they’re nearly black. Her face is round at the chin and pudgy with her baby-fat, and she’s wearing pink and blue striped leggings with holes at the knees, and a T-shirt that says Rock and Roll, with a stencil drawing of a boulder rolling down a hill.

She’s attached to him—she can probably sense that he’s not human either, shifter children tend to gravitate that way, which Derek was never sure was a good thing considering how territorial other packs can be. _He_ knows he’s safe but…

The child locks gazes with him, then without pretense uses small hands to clamber onto his lap and takes his muffin, tearing off a piece and eating happily like the child does it all the time. Stunned, Derek doesn’t say anything until the child attempts to offer him a piece of the muffin, and he manages to croak out, “Uh, no thanks.”

The child stuffs it into her mouth and hums happily before twisting in his arms and pushing up, and into his neck to scent him.

Shit.

It’s about another thirty seconds and Derek’s halfway to calling someone—though he doesn’t know _who_ , maybe his mother—when the café door flings itself open and a very familiar person comes stumbling through all long, clumsy limbed and frantic. Amber-brown eyes flicker through the crowd, and Stiles almost faints with relief as he sees Derek holding the child.

“Oh my god, oh thank fuck, holy shit I thought I was going to be murdered,” Stiles says as he flings himself into a chair across from Derek.

Derek stares. His _escort_ , whom he has never seen outside of his bedroom, who has done nearly unspeakable things to almost every part of his body, is now reaching across the table and gulping what’s left of his latte like they just _do_ this. “Um,” is all Derek can manage.

The child is still rubbing her cheek against his collarbone—something he doesn’t think the parents are going to appreciate much.

Stiles breathes, pushing his hand against his sternum, and he looks so _different_. He doesn’t dress up special—not really. But he’s never casual like this, jogging pants and a threadbare t-shirt with the faded image of the Flash across the front. His hair’s in disarray, and there’s bags under his eyes.

“You scared the living shit out of me, Belly!”

The little girl stares at him. “You just said a bad word,” she admonishes.

She’s still on Derek’s lap.

Stiles finally casts an apologetic look at Derek before holding his hands out, but the little girl refuses to budge. “Dude, I’m gonna let you freak out about this, I promise, because I’ll be doing plenty of that myself. This is my goddaughter, Isobel, who apparently is _fast_ …something her parents neglected to mention she’s been into lately,” he says, his tone just shy of furious.

“Why um,” Derek asks, then waves his hands up and down his body.

“She’s smelled you on me before. It’s familiar, I think,” Stiles says flippantly. “Oh god, are you done with this? I’m starving.” He seizes the rest of Derek’s sandwich. Normally Derek would be more than annoyed—territorial, even, but the situation is just too strange and it’s weirdly warm, and he just decides fuck it all, because today can’t possibly get any more bizarre.

“Okay,” is all he says.

Isobel continues to eat his muffin, Stiles has demolished what’s left of his sandwich and latte. Derek is definitely not hungry anymore.

“Her parents went on a second honeymoon—which is technically like a first honeymoon since Kira was pregnant at the wedding and they couldn’t really go anywhere or do anything fun, so I was watching her. Badly, it seems. If you ever meet Scott, please never, ever tell him this happened.”

“No,” Isobel says. “Daddy says no secrets.”

Stiles groans and lets his head flop down on the table. “Can I see you tonight?”

Derek startles. “Me?” he asks.

Stiles looks up with a goofy grin and says, “No, the kid. Of course you. I owe you. Who knows who the fuck could have picked her up, oh my god. I can’t…no, I’m not even going to think about it.”

Derek snorts now, feeling at least some vague amusement at the total shit-show Stiles’ babysitting job has become, and who is he to turn down a request for Stiles to see him since considering their positions, it’s usually the other way around. “I’m free around eight.”

“Good. This little demon fox baby is going back to her parents at four. Then I’m going to take a long bath, and a long nap, then I’ll come by. Do you want food?” Stiles is up now, and holding his hands out with a stern look, and Isobel reluctantly allows herself to be picked up, though she takes the muffin with her.

“Um,” Derek says.

“I’ll bring Greek. I would seriously kill for some dolmedes and giouvetsi right now.”

“You can’t,” Isobel says seriously, her brows dipped in a frown. “You can’t kill people okay? Because das…not so nice.”

“Thank you, tiny conscience. Where would I be without you,” Stiles says, just a hint of fond sarcasm in his tone. “We cool?” he asks, turning to Derek.

Derek nods, not sure he could say anything else—and in spite of how bizarre this has all been, they are pretty cool. “Have a good afternoon. Good luck,” he says.

Stiles snorts, then his eyes go fond and sweet and Derek hates himself a little for wanting to reach out and…well, he’s not sure. Do something, stake his claim in public. He curls into himself a little.

But Stiles is preoccupied with explaining to the small child why using her super-speed to run through a crowd is not okay, and pushing through the door, and leaving Derek to notice that things got strange. 

\--- 

People at the office notice the scent, and maybe even Derek’s introspective mood, but he’s grateful no one says a word. Not even Laura, in spite of how clear it is on her face that she wants to.

\--- 

Derek’s nearly run himself ragged pacing his apartment at a quarter to eight, and five till, his buzzer rings and he nearly flings himself at the door to let Stiles in. It’s a moment before he can truly compose himself, and Stiles has already breezed in and blabbered on an over-complicated apology.

“…like it ever happens, you know? I mean, it’s impossible to work in my industry and not like…see clients on the street. Usually we have one of those unspoken policies of just, say nothing, but I guess in this case it wouldn’t have worked, would it?” Stiles casts him a huge grin as he’s laying out the food in white, Styrofoam containers, and Derek realizes that yeah, he probably would have done the whole, ignoring Stiles, if he’d been able to. “Anyway, I’m really sorry.”

“You didn’t have to bring food to apologize. Shit happens,” Derek says, his voice little more than a rough grunt.

Stiles waves him off, then seizes his wrist and drags him in. “Can I kiss you first? Before we get all nasty-mouthed from sweet, sweet Greek spices?”

Derek obliges without answering, letting both hands cradle Stiles’ face the way he knows Stiles loves. Their kiss is a sort of pushing-pulling dance with _just_ enough tongue to make it unchaste, and it has Derek hot and bothered, and Stiles weak in the knees. Derek swallows roughly, then without fully letting Stiles go, reaches around him to grab a plate, and heads into the living room to eat.

Stiles joins him with wine, and they eat and Derek listens to Stiles wax on about how his month went, peppering his conversation with the occasional, “I wish you had been there to see that,” which is not unusual for Stiles. He often tells Derek he wishes he was there whenever something unusual happens. “You’d have loved it, I bet it would have even made you smile,” he says.

Derek shrugs, gives a half-amused snort, though no smile. “I got along just fine without that shit,” he replies.

Stiles just rolls his eyes a little and they eat.

It’s nearly nine by the time they’re finished, and full—though not too full—and Stiles reaches into his pocket for his phone. Derek hates the damn phone, knowing it’s full of the other Johns vying for Stiles’ business and attention. It’s a mark of how good Stiles actually is that he’s never, ever showed up to Derek’s smelling like another person—wolf or otherwise, but there’s still moments when Stiles checks his phone and Derek can see from his face it’s another job lining up.

Tonight, however, he’s not checking his texts. Instead, music starts blaring from the speaker, and Stiles gets up, his hips swaying gently, seductively, right in front of Derek.

“What are you doing?” Derek croaks.

The music rapidly shifts, and Stiles’ movements go more erratic with the beat. “Getting you to smile,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

And then he begins to bob along to the pop-beat, doing an exaggerated lip-synch of whatever ridiculous song is playing by some girl that sounds no older than fourteen. Stiles is hopping and dancing, and it actually is funny, in the most painfully endearing way Derek has ever experienced.

And he doesn’t want to give in, but something bubbles hot in his chest—warm and overwhelming, and to his absolute horror, a giggle escapes.

Stiles freezes, eyes wide, and then he raises a finger and points at Derek before Derek grabs his wrist and pulls him down with preternatural speed. He’s hovering over Stiles in seconds, mouthing at his neck, biting at his chin.

Stiles’ fingers are scrambling at his shoulders. “What…what are you doing…”

“I’m going to suck that smirk off through your dick,” is Derek’s reply.

And then he does.

\--- 

It’s hours later, well into the night. Stiles has been blown, fucked, he’s turned Derek over and rimmed him until he was begging. He’s been bitten and marked up, and Derek is now draped across his back in a possessive way that he usually doesn’t give into, pushing his face against Stiles’ neck and marking him.

“I made you smile,” Stiles says with a happy hum.

Derek grunts. “Don’t get used to it.”

With a tiny laugh, Stiles elbows him until they roll over, and they lay there sated and floppy-limbed and the moment is sweeter than it usually is.

“It’s late,” Stiles remarks as he peers at his phone.

Derek hums, rolling onto his side. Normally he doesn’t allow this, but he lets his hand rest on Stiles’ side, and he strokes the skin there. “You need to run?”

“I don’t have anything else going on. I mean I normally don’t but um. Uh. Well, I could stay if you…”

“That isn’t a good idea.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, one he doesn’t even really mean, but he doesn’t stop himself or take it back either. Not even when Stiles flinches.

The smile he puts on is strained, but he doesn’t smell upset. “Yeah no, I get it. I mean, I wouldn’t charge you or anything for it.”

“That’s not the issue. There are…lines,” Derek says, hating himself more and more, but it’s true. There are. He can’t let them blur, it’s not safe. He’s been hurt once, and barely, _barely_ avoided serious tragedy, and he’s not going to make a mistake like that again. What Stiles is giving him now, it’s all he’s allowing for himself.

“You’re right,” is all Stiles says, a little more sad now, but he still turns and lets the tips of his fingers run over the rough start of a short beard on Derek’s chin. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

Derek feels the hot blush from his forehead to his toes and fights back the very real urge to grab Stiles and pin him down and mark him again. He doesn’t give in. “So are you,” he allows, and he can definitely appreciate the way Stiles hears the genuine feeling in the returned compliment.

“Flatterer.” Stiles is up now, groping around for his pants.

Derek sighs, laying back to watch his lean profile as he bends over to dress. “I’m not,” he says simply. “Just telling the truth.”

Stiles tugs his shirt on over his head, then puts one knee on the bed and leans in for a last kiss. “See you soon?”

“Yes,” Derek says, because anything else would be a lie. He doesn’t say anything else as Stiles gathers the rest of his things and leaves, but he does pull the abandoned pillow in close, and sleeps with the scent of them mingled together, feeling a quiet ache because he knows what he’s missing.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a sort of tension in the office, Derek notices it when he comes in with a boiling hot latte in his hand, and a lot on his mind. Normally his mom and sisters don’t bother him about anything apart from his specific job, but he’s called into a meeting first thing, and he can sense the heavy distraction between them.

He gives his reports, the numbers, the dry, boring details that make him want to bash his head on the table until he’s not conscious anymore. They nod and hum like they’re listening but he wonders for a second if they’ve forgotten he’s a damn werewolf just like they are—he might not be Alpha, or second in command, but he’s still part of the pack.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Talia looks up, startled, then offers him a consoling smile. “Oh honey, it’s nothing. I think we’re good to go here, so if you want to…”

Derek crosses his arms and stares pointedly, ignores Laura’s warning growl, decides to be petulant and persistent until she gives in.

She does, after a moment. “Stocks are up. Way up.”

“I know that,” Derek says mildly. “I just gave you…”

“Our company is worth a lot, in both the human and the shifter world,” she says. There’s something in her tone—she’s asking him to reach for it, to understand it.

It only takes him a minute. “The Alpha Pack,” he murmurs.

Laura sighs a sigh of inevitability, and leans back in her chair.

“I thought they were gone,” Derek points out. But it’s in that moment a faint breeze drifts in through the window, and carried on it is the distinct scent of something powerful, and something _other_. He shivers.

“They’re not going to give up that easily. I’ve dealt with them before. Deucalion and I used to be close.”

Derek knows this—remembers him from before, when things weren’t done in the manner of business, but in the manner of that small divide somewhere between man and animal. He can’t deny the small piece of him who misses it, who finds it simpler—part of his nature. But he understands this, understands why his mother pushed for it. After she lost his father…

“They’re using intimidation tactics, and they’ve also got some people on the inside. Attempting to stage a coup,” Laura says. “If I’d known about it before they came, I’d be able to sniff them out. But they asked for a tour, got their scent on _everything_.” She lets out a disgusted sigh. “We’re running background traces on everyone.”

Derek nods. “I want to help.”

He thinks for a minute his mother is going to refuse him. Derek knows he’s been babied most of his life—treated like he can’t handle anything because of the trauma he’d faced at the death of people he loved, his eyes changing so young, and then his father and his brothers. But she doesn’t deny him this time.

“I’ll let you know. Right now we’re going to handle this as best we can without drawing attention to it,” Talia says. “I’m hoping they’ll give up.”

“Not that they have a history of doing that,” Laura says bitterly. She throws a folder she’d been reading on the table, then pushes herself up to stand. “Come on, Der. Let’s get something to eat. All this talk of corporate sabotage gets my appetite up.”

Derek knows that Laura and his mother don’t do well in the face of conflict. They don’t complement each other the way and Alpha and a second should—even if she’s the most logical choice to take over once Talia retires or dies. He’s always been a decent buffer—one of his only siblings who could be, since the rest tended to be more hostile. Derek didn’t know his mother back then, when she was angrier and volatile. He’d only known this Talia, zen, even in the face of her husband’s death. But he knows it’s still lurking there. He thinks the Alpha pack is currently underestimating her, and that’s probably a good thing.

He and Laura leave, head down to the basement where the gym and smoothie shop are, and she orders them something with honey powder and extra protein and something green that looks like the compost pile they have at the preserve. But it doesn’t taste bad, and being in her presence is soothing.

“I can tell you’re all emotionally constipated, and if you want to share, I’d appreciate it,” she says to him. They make their way to the loading dock where they don’t have any deliveries scheduled for a while. The bay is open though, and there’s a sharp tang of sea on the air. “I need to take my mind off things.”

Derek sighs. “It’s nothing.”

She rolls her eyes and elbows him. “Do me a solid, okay? Don’t try to lie to me. You seriously suck at it.”

Derek flushes, sighs, rolls his eyes upward at the blue sky which will probably be foggy by mid-afternoon. “It’s Stiles.”

“Not getting you there anymore. He’s the best in the biz, Der, I don’t know what more he can possibly pull out to impress you.”

Derek gives her a flat look. “I ran into him the other day, at a café. He was babysitting.”

“That sounds uterus-cramping cute,” she says.

Derek rolls his eyes again, shrugging. “It made me…think. Things. That I don’t want to be thinking about my prostitute.”

“Escort,” she corrects absently. She chews on her straw, then sucks in a mouthful which makes an offensive noise, and then sits back to lean on one hand. “I had a feeling it would get complicated. But I thought maybe you could use complicated.”

Derek frowns. “What…”

“He reminds me of dad. Not like in a creepy reverse Oedipus way where you like …want to fuck your dad and kill your mom or whatever. But in a way that…” She stops, clearly unable to articulate what it is.

But Derek gets it. “I remember when we were little, I’d trip and fall on that shitty bottom stair near the kitchen. Every time. I’d bust my knee, and dad would put me up on the counter and he’d wipe up the blood and kiss the wound, and put a little batman bandaid on it. Even after it was already healed.”

“He had a way of making humanity seem safe instead of…”

“Fragile,” Derek says.

Laura nods. “Stiles has that. Maybe not the same. I don’t really see the guy putting batman bandaids and kissing your boo-boos, but…”

Derek breaths out a puff of air and knows exactly what she means. Which terrifies him to the core, because the last time he trusted a human well…everything burnt to ash. Literally. And he knows logically it wasn’t his fault. He was a kid and she was not, and she was cleverer than he was, and using him, and she was evil and manipulative and _good_ at her job.

No one blames him, but he can’t stop the bone-deep fear of what loving another person could mean. Even if he’s sure enough that Stiles isn’t like Kate. So sure he’d stake his life on it. Literally.

“There’s no harm in feeling things, Derek. It’s not always going to end badly.”

Derek wants to make a disparaging comment about the disaster that is Laura’s love-life, but he knows that’s sort of by choice because she gets a thrill out of chasing the drama she chases, and if she wanted to settle down, she’d be good at it.

“He’s not…it’s not…we aren’t dating.”

“No,” Laura muses. “And you can’t date him while you’re paying him to fuck you, either. But there’s a pretty simple solution to all of that.”

Derek scoffs. “The idea you’d think it’s so simple…”

“You’re the one who likes things complicated,” she points out, and he can’t exactly deny that. He doesn’t like things dramatic, but he’s pretty sure you have to at least get most of your life twisted up in order to be considered a Hale. “I have a lot to do. Are you distracted enough or do we need to keep talking about my hooker.”

“I’m going to tell him you keep calling him that,” she calls after him, after he pushes to his feet and heads for the door.

He shrugs, his only answer. He doesn’t really think Stiles is going to care much.

\---

“You seem tense.” 

Derek groans as Stiles’ talented fingers work themselves over his back, coated in a fragrant oil which is currently working on his muscles. As a werewolf, he doesn’t get knots, but he still lets all of his tension ride in his back, and he can’t deny how good this feels.

To be taken care of, he thinks, and he remembers what Laura was saying about their dad. It makes something in his gut twist, and he can’t seem to stop himself from turning, from pinning Stiles to the sheets and kissing him hard and thorough.

“Not that I’m against moving things along,” Stiles says, palming his cheek with an oily hand, “but is there something you want to talk about?”

He wants to tell Stiles he’s not paying him to talk, he’s paying him to fuck, but he knows it’ll come across cruel, and he doesn’t mean it. Because he can’t deny that there’s a very real, very visceral part of him tied to the wolf that wants Stiles here all the time. That wants Stiles to smell like him, to have their scents mingled together all over the house, to see Stiles using his things in the morning like he belongs there because he _does_.

But instead he just kisses Stiles again, and doesn’t put up any resistance when Stiles begins to work his mouth down Derek’s chest, to eventually when he takes Derek’s cock down his throat and lets Derek fuck his face.

It’s over quicker than Derek anticipates, and they’re lying together—sticky and sated and smelling like the two of them which is comforting in itself. Derek has half his face mashed up against the pillow, and Stiles is tracing around the swirls of his triskelion tattoo.

“How did you get this?” he asks.

Derek hums. “What?”

“The tattoo? My best friend is a wolf and he’s been wanting one forever, but when he tried, it just…healed.”

Derek huffs a laugh into the fabric of the pillowcase, not because it’s funny, but because it was the worst pain he’s ever felt in his life. “Fire,” he says, and he understands the irony of it. The tattoo meant a lot of things, and penance was one of them. “You have to overwhelm the ability to heal with fire—not just a lighter,” he clarifies. “Not matches. It has to be hot enough to sear the skin away.”

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes, and Derek startles when Stiles drags his lips along the tattoo in a slow kiss. “You must have really wanted this.”

“You have to want it, otherwise it’s not worth going through all of that.”

“Makes sense why most werewolves aren’t sleeved.”

Derek actually laughs at that, turns over to see Stiles’ face—the happy and almost startled grin on his face that he got Derek to do more than just scoff at him. “That’s probably part of the reason, yeah. I think being a werewolf is probably punk enough though. Hairy face and teeth and claws kind of outweigh tattoos in the badass category.”

“Oh my god, you nerd,” Stiles says, grinning like he’s won the lottery or something. His hand comes up, like he can’t help it, tracing a line down Derek’s profile. “Are you feeling better?”

Derek sighs at that, and he feels the smile melt away, but he knows the softness remains in his eyes. He can’t help it. God help him, he’s been trying, but Stiles has wormed his way in somehow and Derek needs to really figure out how the hell he’s going to deal with this. “Trouble at work,” he says. “Wolf business, boring but…stressful.”

Stiles sighs, leans in to nibble at his collarbone, and in spite of making him feel vulnerable, he tilts his head to the side to allow better access. It means something—he knows it, and the little start Stiles gives says that Stiles knows it too. But he doesn’t say anything, just kisses the side of his throat for a long, slow moment.

“I thought you were going to say you were worried about Laura selling you out,” he says after a moment. When Derek makes a noise of questioning, Stiles laughs against his skin and says, “Because you keep calling me a hooker.”

“Oh my god,” Derek groans.

“She texts me all the time,” Stiles says. “We’re friends.”

Derek growls, deep in his chest—a little possessive, but more playful, and he pins Stiles back to the pillows and sniffs at his neck. “You never smell like others.”

Stiles huffs, cuffing Derek on the side of the head. “What kind of dick would I be if I went and brought the smell of other wolves in here, Derek?”

“No I…” Derek swallows. “You smell like other people. Like…” He sniffs again, then again. “Like the caramel latte you had earlier, and two women who brushed against your arm. And your friend who gave you a hug. Those linger, less after your shower but…” He swallows. He’s approaching a delicate moment, and he knows it. “Sex lasts longer.”

He sees it the moment Stiles figures out he’s on to something, and he sees a blush rising onto Stiles’ cheeks, making his freckles stand out against the pink. “Uh.”

“You’re not fucking anyone else,” Derek says plainly.

Stiles sighs. “I have another job. I don’t need…you pay me enough and I…” He covers his face with one hand, drags it down, then back up to ruffle his hair. “I’m good at what I do. Very good…”

“I know that,” Derek says, his voice a low grumble.

Stiles reacts to it, Derek wonders if it’s some pavlovian thing—like maybe Stiles’ first and best fuck has been a werewolf because whenever Derek does stuff like that, he can smell the heady arousal coming from him. “I don’t need a giant client base to make ends meet. I’m happy with what I’ve got right now.”

“Me,” Derek says.

Stiles nods. He seems to be waiting for something else—something more. But Derek isn’t quite ready yet.

The silence stretches on, then Stiles sighs and curls his hand around the back of Derek’s neck and draws him in for a kiss. “Do you want me to go? I know you have a lot to think about. To deal with. I feel like we should talk but…”

“I need time,” Derek says, open and honest.

Far from being offended, Stiles looks almost relieved as he pushes himself up to sit. He eyes his clothes, but doesn’t make a move to grab them. “It’s happened before. I mean…not to me. But it does happen.” He’s not specific, but Derek doesn’t need him to be. He knows what Stiles is getting at. “Best thing to do is get some space, take some time away from what this is, to think about what it might be. Decide if that’s what we want.”

“Okay,” Derek says, because what else can he say? That he wants to say fuck it and mark Stiles as his own? To hold him tight and keep him. If they do this, Derek’s not going to be okay with Stiles keeping his job. He won’t be able to help it—it’s nature and he has no problem with the job itself, but his wolf isn’t going to be able to live with Stiles coming home smelling like someone else.

And he realizes Stiles knows that very well.

“We’ll think about it,” he says.

Stiles gives him a soft grin, and a kiss to match before he stands up and gets his clothes on. It’s less of a production than taking them off, and it’s a little sadder and leaves him a little emptier because they’ve basically just agreed not to see each other for a while.

But Derek understands the necessity. They’ve reached a crossroads and they can’t keep going the way they’re going. They’ll either take another step and re-work their relationship and in Stiles’ case, his job, or they’ll part ways. Because Derek can’t have part of this if he can’t have all of it. That’s just not how he’s built. It’s a harsh truth, but one all the same.

He has a feeling this is the first of many, many talks.

Derek walks Stiles to the door, and leaves it cracked as he watches Stiles take the winding stairs down to the lobby, then he shuts it. He leans against the wood and he breathes, and he wishes.

It seems okay.

It might be.

And then the smell hits him. Fear. The sound of Stiles’ heartbeat, and the sound of his feet, and the cry of pain. Alphas—the smell Derek recognized all over the office, and he knows what this means.

Throwing the door open, he launches himself into the hallway, grabbing the banister just before something fragrant, floral, yellow and soft, hits him in the face. He’s aware long enough to feel himself pitch over the banister and start to fall before everything goes black.

\--- 

Derek wakes in pain, and in panic because the wolfsbane is out of his system and he _remembers_. He scrambles to his feet, half-drunk with the poison, but he’s getting better by the second as he leaps up. His legs are aching, the bones knitting together but not fast _enough_. The wolfsbane had clouded his nose, but he manages to grab Stiles’ scent, and it’s coming from the back entrance where the employees come and go.

He stumbles into the alley and he sees him, near the dumpsters, lying in a heap. He smells fear, and blood, amongst the Alphas and other _things_ that are foreign to him. Derek skids to his knees and his hands are already prodding at Stiles.

There’s a heartbeat, thrumming like a rabbit because of the pain, but it means he’s alive. His eyes are open.

Stiles’ mouth works, his words a little thick. “Hey.”

“Where are you hurt?”

“It actually doesn’t hurt at all, which I think is the bad thing. It’s a bad, bad thing Derek.” Stiles laughs humorlessly as Derek stares, helpless and confused. “Something hit me over the head, I went down. When I came to, everything got really cold and funny and then…numb. I think my neck is broken. I can’t…I can’t feel anything below my neck.”

Derek swears, almost roars but he doesn’t think that’s going to help. But he does know he’s going to _kill_ every last member of the Alpha pack if it’s the last thing he does. He bends over, smelling blood under Stiles’ shirt, but he thinks that’s an issue for later. Stiles reeks of something else, of shifter—creature—but he can’t put his finger on it.

“Am I going to die?” Stiles asks in a trembling voice.

“I will not let you die. But if your neck is broken, I can’t let you move, either. I…” He swallows. “My mom’s an alpha. The bite can heal you if…”

“I don’t,” Stiles says brokenly, and Derek squeezes his eyes shut.

He takes one hand and gently curls it round Stiles’ neck. There’s something there, wet and warm and… and his whole arm goes cold suddenly, and then numb. It drops to the pavement, totally useless, and it takes a full half a minute for Derek to connect the dots.

“You’re not paralyzed,” he says.

Stiles blinks at him. “I know it’s a shock, buddy, but yeah, I am. I can’t feel a thing, can’t move. I can’t…”

“No,” Derek stresses, and he pulls his hand out, holding it up with his functioning one. His fingers, hanging useless, are dripping with some sort of viscous fluid that smells like death or poison or…something. Very carefully, he pulls his shirt off, using that to wipe off what’s there, and as his legs are still healing, he can feel his body pushing out the toxins. His fingers are tingling again. “I don’t know what this is, but you’re not paralyzed. This was…”

A message.

It was a message, from the Alpha pack.

Derek barely contains himself as he gathers Stiles to him and carries him up the stairs, into the safety of his apartment. He lays him on the bed, arranges him as carefully as possible, doesn’t leave his side as he fumbles for his phone.

“What’s happening?” Stiles finally asks. His heart is still jackrabbiting in his chest, but he smells…safer. His voice is calmer.

“I need to call my mother. My family’s been…there’s another pack in the city and they’ve issued a challenge.”

“By attacking me?” Stiles demands.

Derek swallows thickly, then reaches for Stiles’ shirt. He sees it then, the bloody claw marks in the symbol he’s seen on paperwork he’d been processing for days. It’s most definitely a message. They’re coming after his pack’s vulnerable spots, starting with the humans.

“Call your mom,” Stiles says after watching Derek’s hesitation.

Derek breathes out, then picks up his phone, and he does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super short, and I have no real excuses except that real life was kicking my ass, and y'all, I hope you believe me when I say I'd way rather be at home writing Sterek than stuck in the library for a billion hours studying. Anyway I hope you like this chapter anyway! It's mostly filler, but hopefully it's sweet enough.

“Tell me a story,” Stiles says. He’s groggy from the pain meds Deaton’s injected into his arm which the Emissary explained would help when the paralysis wore off. Stiles wasn’t grievously injured, but the Alphas—whichever one had done it—had left a vicious claw mark on Stiles’ chest, and the cut where they’d injected whatever the paralytic was, was fairly deep.

“Any worse,” Deaton had said quietly, out of Stiles’ earshot, “and he really might not be able to walk again.”

Deaton was with Talia now, discussing recourse, how to deal with the issue as he waited for the viscous liquid extracted from the cut to be analyzed. Stiles’ was still afraid, his heart thrumming, but he was holding it together far better than Derek would have been.

“What kind of story?” Derek asks after a moment.

Stiles huffs a laugh. “Tell me something about when you were a kid. Before you became captain Grumpy Wolf.”

Derek laughs quietly, easing himself down to the floor at the side of the bed where Stiles is laying, and he hides his chuckle in the side of the comforter. “I was a weird kid,” he admits. “I mean, I guess all kids are weird, but I was kind of…” He closes his eyes, thinks back on it. “I shifted early—I was around six, which at least for our family was years younger than most of the other kids. I liked being in my beta form—I used to sneak out at night, and my mom had to post watch for me on the back porch because I kept coming home with like baby squirrels and racoons in my teeth.”

Stiles grimaces. “Oh my god.”

“Not dead ones,” Derek huffs. “I just liked them. I thought they were shifters.”

Stiles’ eyes crinkle in the corners with his smile and he says, “I’m so fucking annoyed that I can’t move right now. All I want to do is put my arms around you and kiss your stupid face.”

Derek feels his blush from head to toe. He’s not a fool, he knows Stiles has feelings for him deeper than the whole client-escort thing, but they were supposed to be taking space from it. Then again, a lot of that shit goes out the window when you get paralyzed by the Alpha pack and gored as a message to the other wolves in the city. Derek feels rage rush through him, a desire to wolf out and chase them down and rip them limb from limb.

It’s just him being protective, really. Derek isn’t powerful enough to take on a single one of them, and tracking them down would be a fool’s errand.

“Hey. You’ve got your serious face on,” Stiles says.

Derek sighs, turning his head to better see Stiles. “I’m angry, and I…feel…” He frowns, searching for the words. “I feel uncomfortable, that I can’t do something about it.”

Stiles sighs, then there’s movement. Derek hears it, and perks his head up as Stiles begins to wiggle his feet.

“That’s good, right?” he asks.

“It’s good. Expected. Whatever it is should wear off soon,” Deaton says, coming back into the room with Talia at his heels. “Once you’re mobile again, Alpha Hale will call for a car to take you…”

“Whoa, hang on,” Stiles says, trying to move his limbs a little, though it’s mostly futile. “Go where, exactly?”

“Somewhere safe,” Talia says, and she crosses her arms, and when her eyes flash red, Derek feels a whine of submission building in his chest before he suppresses it. “They’ve declared open war on us.”

“Why? Because they slashed up the chest of your beta’s hooker?” Stiles asks, a little more blunt than he usually is.

Talia doesn’t miss a beat. “They think Derek is our weak link. That’s their mistake, for one. But unfortunately they were able to find out just how important you are to Derek. They’ll come after you again, and it’ll be with far more teeth and claws.” She hesitates, then says, “They may bite you, and if you survive, you’ll be bound to their pack.”

Stiles’ eyes widen and he looks at Derek with a hint of frantic just below the surface. “Uh…”

“I know this isn’t what you signed up for, and if I hadn’t been stupid enough to fall for you…” Derek begins.

Stiles clears his throat loud enough to shut Derek up. It’s as effective as he would have been if he could have moved his arms enough to slap a hand over Derek’s mouth. “Okay, big guy, that’s…yeah. That’s enough. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want them to use me against you. I also don’t want you questioning your existence because they’re a big bag of dicks and decide to paint my chest with nasty claws.”

Derek swallows thickly, and wisely doesn’t try to contradict him. “We have a few safe places they’re unaware of.”

Talia nods. “Deaton’s preparing something for you to take with, so they can’t track your scent. Laura and I will deal with the rest.”

Derek feels a protective streak rising in him. Being told he can’t fight for the honor of the person he cares for, who was hurt as a message to them, is a blow to his pride. “Mother…”

“Derek,” she says, nothing in her voice asking him to submit. “I don’t think you’re too weak to fight, but I need to protect what’s mine. They threatened Stiles, but by proxy they threatened you. Not just my beta, but my son.” Her voice shakes a little, because Derek’s well aware of what he means to her—more maybe now, after everything they’ve lost. “I trust no one more to protect Stiles until this is over.”

He knows fighting her is both foolish and pointless, so he tilts his head slightly in submission, even though she didn’t ask for it, and then he leans back down against the mattress and breathes out a sigh. It’s all he can do.

“I can move both my feet now, and my knees a little bit,” Stiles says. “You wanna help me sit up, racoon boy? I could use some water.”

Derek ignores the smirk on both Deaton and Talia’s faces as he sits up on the bed, and props Stiles up against his chest between his legs. There’s water on the nightstand, and Stiles takes a sip of it as Derek grips the glass. His arms flop uselessly, but he’s starting to wiggle his fingers a little, and Derek starts to feel like it’ll be over soon.

“Pins and needles,” Stiles groans as Deaton and Talia leave the room to conclude their business. His head flops back against Derek’s collarbone. “So…a secluded cabin, alone in the wilderness. Just you and me?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “It’s in San Diego, in the city,” he says dryly. “The Ito pack lives there now, and we have a treaty. They’re not fighters—more magic users than anything, but it means they have more cloaking protection and that’s what we need right now.”

Stiles has enough movement to shift a little more firmly against Derek’s body, and he turns his head to the side a little. “Could be worse,” he murmurs.

Derek closes his eyes. It could be worse. He knows what worse is. Worse is a trail of dead bodies, and funerals, and grief so intense he feels like it’s going to eat him alive. He clings to Stiles a little more tightly than normal, but Stiles doesn’t complain. He just pushes into the touch and breathes out, his scent almost contented, which is a far cry from the waves of fear clouding Derek’s senses from before.

“I’m going to protect you,” Derek vows.

“I know,” Stiles says with a tiny laugh. “I meant when I said it could be worse. I trust you.”

And that well…it’s not a lie. At all. Stiles’ heartbeat is steady and soft, and Derek wants to wrap his arms around Stiles and never, ever let go. He won’t, of course. Stiles is a human and will never be bound to mate or pack the way Derek will be, but he remembers how devoted his father was, and how much his parents loved each other, and he thinks that so long as it doesn’t end in flames, Derek can live with it.

He dips his head and presses a kiss to Stiles’ temple, nosing lower at his throat in his last, vain attempts to rid Stiles of any remaining Alpha scent. Stiles knows what he’s doing of course, and he doesn’t try to stop him.


	5. Chapter 5

He’s at the window, half lost in memories, which is why he misses Stiles getting up from the bed. He hears him almost a fraction too late, but manages to turn and catch him as Stiles’ legs give out. He’s weak still, and tired, but he offers Derek a half-smile of thanks since he didn’t fall on his face.

“Things are still kinda tingly,” Stiles says, wiggling a little bit as he shimmies to a stand.

It’s not that Derek doesn’t understand human weakness—he’s grown up with plenty of humans in his pack. He knows what sickness and fragility are like. He does. But being vulnerable the way Stiles was vulnerable in that alley—and because of him, because the Alphas saw him as a weak spot—the guilt is hard to bear.

When Stiles is steady on his feet again, Derek turns back toward the window. He’s watching the deep-night city continue to live below them, like nothing ever happened. Why should the city know? Why should it stop simply because a person Derek cares about nearly stopped.

The thought makes his chest feel tight. The idea that Stiles might have…

“I know that look.” Stiles is behind him now, carefully putting a hand on each shoulder, drawing Derek backward until his back hits Stiles’ chest. He can smell the blood there, the marred flesh that Deaton attempted to piece back together. “It’s not your fault.”

Derek scoffs. “It’s…” And well, okay, it’s not his fault. Derek wasn’t part of the deal his mother and Laura turned down. Derek handles paperwork and inside stuff, and he’s a CEO of the company but he doesn’t…he’s not high enough in the pack order to really matter. He’s been spoilt and he’s been coddled most of his life and that’s why they attacked.

They always go for the soft bits.

Derek might be rude, might be grumpy and unkind and unlikely to love much, but he’s still on the softer side.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says right then. He doesn’t really know how to verbalize what he’s feeling. And he hates waiting, which is what they’re doing. Waiting for the all-clear, for the ride that will take them into the middle of nowhere to protected them from whatever threat lie beyond.

And the wolf inside Derek is howling because it’s attached to Stiles now, it’s attached and it wants to protect and provide and he’s being caged. How can Derek be a good mate if he can’t protect what’s his?

Not that Stiles is his.

They were supposed to have some time apart, to have a conversation about what all this means. For all intents and purposes right now, Stiles is still on his payroll. He’s still a fucking escort who had come over, fucked Derek, gotten paid, then gotten _maimed_.

Stiles doesn’t seem to be bothered by all that. He’s holding Derek now, taking the comfort Derek’s being a little stingy with. He’s holding tight with both hands loped around Derek’s neck and locked together down his sternum. Stiles’ chin is resting on Derek’s head and they’re both watching the city.

Or at least, both pretending to.

“Sleep with me tonight,” Stiles finally says. “Or whatever. Until they get here.”

Derek closes his eyes, breathes, opens them. “That might not be the…best idea. You’re…we haven’t…”

“I think we’ve gone well beyond our professional relationship, Derek,” Stiles says, his tone a mixture of serious and playful. He tightens his grip and Derek sort of preens because as much as he wants to take care, he also wants to be taken care of and Stiles is doing that right now. Soothing his savage beast, or…something. “I just got paralyzed and clawed up and I need a goddamn cuddle. I’ll pay _you_ if I have to.”

“Jesus. Stiles I…” Derek huffs, and detaches Stiles’ grip. He stands, turns, then sweeps Stiles into his arms in a bridal carry which is easy because Stiles is dense, but he’s not stronger than Derek under normal circumstances, and right now he’s still weak. He walks toward the bedroom, slowly so he can bend his head down and breathe in the scent of Stiles which is finally, _finally_ starting to lose that sour tinge of stranger and unfamiliar Alpha.

He makes it to the bedroom and lays Stiles out on the bed sheets. It still smells like the toxin and a little bit like Deaton and blood, but enough like the two of them it’s not overwhelming. And even a few hours will be enough to get rid of what’s lingering that isn’t _them_.

Stiles is pliant as Derek arranges the two of them, and he curls around his back and pushes his nose against the back of Stiles’ neck. “This is good,” he says.

“I always wondered if different circumstances and you wouldn’t be a man of such few words,” Stiles says. He curls his arm protectively over the one Derek’s using to hold him in place, and he links their hands together, his palm on top of the back of Derek’s hand. Their fingers slot together carefully, but easily. Stiles’ fingers are slender, thick-knuckled though, calloused but well groomed.

Derek lets his thumb drag against Stiles’. “I don’t usually have a lot to say. I…feel a lot. I just don’t have the words as often as people might like.”

“I like you this way,” Stiles says, simply, without a single hitch in his heartbeat.

Derek feels warmth rushing through him. His eyes close, and frankly it’s a miracle that he gets anywhere close to sleep.

\--- 

There’s no attack, there’s no drama. Deaton and Talia arrive to declare that the Alphas have a surplus of Kanima venom, and that there’s no immediate danger since it’s clear they injected it instead of having one of the creatures on hand. The wounds on Stiles’ chest came from werewolf claws—a symbol of the Alpha pack, and a promise.

Then they’re whisked off into a car loaded with herbs which will throw off any scent, and they drive off into the early morning sunrise.

\--- 

Derek has been to the safehouse before. After Kate, after the Argents, and the fire. He and his siblings spent six long months locked away in the little preserve as Talia handled it. He hasn’t been back since, but stepping into the entry way, he swears he can still smell the ghost of burnt clothes and smoke and death.

It helps that Stiles is clinging on to him, still a little weak, and exhausted from the drive. Derek’s been given vague instructions—mostly to just wait, nothing more—and then the driver and the car is gone. He feels a lurch, and he knows suddenly they’re stuck behind a line of mountain ash.

The Alphas can’t get to them now. But they can’t get out, either.

The idea of captivity, even for his own safety, is cloying. He knows there’s enough room outside the cabin to shift and run through trees, but his wolf does not like to be contained, and he can feel it scratching at him from the inside.

“You’re shaking,” Stiles says.

Derek breathes heavily through his nose, then says, “Go sit on the couch and I’ll see what we have to eat.”

\--- 

They sleep after that, in the massive bed in the master bedroom. No expense was spared for the cabin. It’s two stories with several bedrooms, meant to house the pack when they were in need. The kitchen is fully stocked which will keep them fed a few weeks—and after that well, he’s not entirely sure. He has faith in his family, but he can’t help the worry. His mother is strong, she has alliances with several packs in the area, but that doesn’t mean she’s invulnerable. The idea of losing her is almost enough to suffocate him. It’s definitely enough to have him gripping the edge of the marble counter top until it starts to crack. He lets go before disaster, feeds him and Stiles, and then they retreat to the top floor of the house.

Derek is awake long before Stiles, and goes down to start some coffee and plan what they’re going to do to keep themselves occupied for the duration of their stay. He thinks maybe if he makes it sound like a vacation, it won’t be so bad.

That’s a lie, of course, but he’s willing to try anything right now.

The coffee is good quality, and there’s some frozen Belgian waffles in the freezer, so he throws those in the oven and heats it up. He hears the shower turn on just as he’s warming up a little dish of syrup, and he doesn’t have a tray to carry everything on, but he manages one plate and two mugs okay.

Breakfast in bed sounds at least a little soothing—something Stiles deserves at the very least, and Derek thinks maybe he can work on getting Stiles better—work on getting to _know_ him instead of losing himself in his thoughts.

He sets everything on the nightstand, then sits on the bed and waits. And waits.

He can hear Stiles’ elevated heartbeat, and the rush of the shower, but he knows Stiles isn’t in it, and he realizes after a short while that there might actually be something wrong. The door is cracked, so he gets up and pushes his head in and sees Stiles standing at the mirror, dressed only in boxers. His nimble fingers are touching the raised edges of the mark carved into his chest.

His face is unreadable, and his scent is mingled with something like fear, regret, disappointment. It’s too much at once, and Derek’s too overwhelmed to try and pick it apart for analysis.

So he crosses the distance, puts one hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and feels a profound sense of gratitude when Stiles doesn’t flinch.

“It’s going to scar like this,” is the first thing he says. Not a question. A statement full of resignation.

Derek swallows thickly. “Yes.” He says it bluntly, flatly, because there’s no sense in lying. He doesn’t have the platitudes to give.

“If I was a wolf, it wouldn’t scar,” Stiles says, then traces the outline of one of the prongs. The mark is almost a mockery of the triskelion. It’s all bold lines and sharp edges. Cruel, just like the Alphas.

Derek closes his eyes. “It would have. Maybe not on the outside, but things scar, Stiles.”

Stiles looks up at Derek in the mirror, his eyes honey colored and bright, but sad in a way Derek’s not used to seeing.

“I can’t bite you,” Derek says. “I mean, I can’t turn you. I’m a beta.”

At that, Stiles surprises Derek by laughing, shaking his head. He leans into him just slightly, and says, “I don’t want the bite, Derek. I like being human.”

Derek abandons all pretense and lets his head fall forward, nosing into Stiles’ neck, scenting him. “I like you human, too.”

“Do you?” Stiles sounds surprised—a genuine surprise, not mocking.

Derek lifts his head. “You’re…” He doesn’t exactly have the words for what he’s thinking, so instead he just turns Stiles in his arms, cups his face, and kisses him. It’s a soft thing, drawn out and just a hint of tongue—maybe a promise of something later, when they’re both healed and comfortable enough to take that step outside of a business transaction. “Take your shower,” he murmurs against Stiles’ lips. “Then eat some breakfast.”

Stiles holds on to Derek’s crooked elbows, keeping him in close, his eyes closed, breathing in deep like he’s catching Derek’s scent. “Okay,” he says after a little while. He steps back, and Derek lets him go.

When Derek sits on the bed again, staring at their cooling breakfast, he can hear Stiles get under the water. He can hear the way his heartbeat slows, then picks up again as maybe he thinks about the attack. Or maybe it’s other things. He’ll ask, later.

Stiles comes out a little while after, and they sit on the bed, and they eat their food. They eventually make it downstairs to the back porch and sit on the little chaise Derek doesn’t remember from the last time. It doesn’t smell like anything besides the forest and maybe a hint of passing animals. He has no idea when the last time anyone else has been here.

“How protected are we?” Stiles asks after a little while. He’s wrapped against Derek’s chest, Derek’s arms around him, hands pressing to his belly, just below the gashes.

“Mountain ash,” Derek admits. “You can come and go, but I can’t leave. And the Alphas can’t get in.”

Stiles takes in a deep, slow breath, and Derek can almost feel it in his own body. He’s never felt this connected to another person. Ever. It’s…overwhelming.

“Can we take a walk? Can you show me?” There’s an edge to Stiles’ voice, like he needs proof that right now the Alphas can’t reach through the line and pull him out, finish what they started.

Derek’s more than happy to oblige him. They slip their shoes on, and Stiles gets a coat, though Derek appreciates the slight bite to the wind. Being cooped up in the cabin makes him feel overheated and itchy, so the fresh breeze soothes that just a little.

The mountain ash line is half a mile out—it’s not enough space, really, but it’s enough to keep him from going mad.

He can feel it a few feet away, and he puts out a hand, walking forward, forward until he’s forced to stop. It burns as he pushes against the barrier, a faint, aching tingle up to his elbow. He can see the air around him shimmer as the magic keeps him back.

Stiles sucks in his breath, then lets it out, and in Derek’s periphery, he can see Stiles nod. “Okay,” he says.

Derek turns just in time to catch Stiles who hurls himself at Derek and kisses him. It’s deeper than before, just this side of desperate, a sort of begging for comfort. Derek indulges him, because really, it’s like indulging himself.

When they pull apart, Stiles doesn’t step out of the warm circle of Derek’s arms. “How long?”

“I don’t know,” Derek admits.

“Will your mom keep you updated?”

Derek doesn’t have the answer to this, either, because it’s not the Alpha’s job to share information with pack members who aren’t part of the fight. So he just shrugs, and twists their fingers together, and leads Stiles back to the cabin.

“We might be here a while,” he says as they step inside.

Stiles offers him a very small smile as he shrugs the coat off, then he takes a step toward Derek and he’s received, yet again, with open arms. “Might as well make the best of it.”

Derek knows that logically he should say no, at least until they figure themselves out. But that look on Stiles’ face, and the thrumming anxiety of being trapped have other plans.

Derek doesn’t fight his urges too hard.


	6. Chapter 6

_“…trust me on this, okay? You’ll like it.”_

_“Stiles…”_

_“Hey. Who is the professional here, eh? Who called who for erotic you know…shit.”_

_Derek gives him a flat look. “Who called whom,” he insists, then tries to pull his foot away, but for a human, Stiles has an impressive grip. “And I don’t think foot massages are erotic.”_

_“That’s because you haven’t had one of mine,” Stiles says, and wiggles his eyebrows making Derek roll his eyes. “Will you please trust me? You’re paying me like…a stupid amount of money to make you feel good, and I actually do know what I’m doing.”_

_Derek’s naked and sprawled out on his back, and Stiles is at the end of the bed wearing nothing but socks, holding Derek’s ankle in one hand, and a bottle of oil in his other. He looks up at Stiles, at the moles dotting his skin, at the unabashed grin on his face, at the honey-colored constellations in his eyes, and he knows he’s going to give in to anything Stiles wants. It’s not even a question really._

_He’s not entirely sure what he got himself into, calling this escort service. It’s been exactly three months and suddenly he’s thinking future, and he’s thinking…he’s thinking things he shouldn’t be as Stiles’ thumbs dig into the arches of his feet, and then his lips kiss at his ankles._

_It’s three months in, and Derek is so, so fucked._

\--- 

“Hey.” Stiles’ voice is sleep-rough and deep, his hands warm from the blankets as they slide across Derek’s naked shoulders.

Derek’s at the window seat, watching the horizon from the second floor bedroom. He can’t actually see the mountain ash barrier, but he likes to imagine he can see the slight waver in the air where he knows he can’t escape past. Stiles is behind him now, warm arms encircling his chest.

They were sleeping—just sleeping. After a long afternoon of feelings and worry, and Stiles being unsure because his body is marked in a way that’s not going to disappear ever, and Derek can’t pretend to understand the internal trauma that attack caused.

But Stiles is still here, and any normal person would probably be petrified of any werewolf after something like that, but he doesn’t smell like fear. He smells like contentment and a little bit like frustration, and a lot like familiarity and home.

Derek lets himself get lost in the warmth of Stiles’ embrace, and tries not to think about how complicated it’s going to be after all this is over. He wants, God he wants so badly, but letting himself have is such a wholly different story. It means asking something of Stiles that he has no right to ask for.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Derek huffs, then turns his head slightly and says, “I was remembering the first foot massage you gave me.”

He feels Stiles heat up with a blush, smells vague nostalgia on him. “The one that devolved into the best rim-job you’ve ever gotten?”

“The one for my birthday last year was pretty up there,” Derek admits.

“Fine,” Stiles concedes, resting his chin on Derek’s shoulder, pressing his back all along Derek’s. “Then I’m the best rim-giver you’ve ever had…”

“The only,” Derek says.

Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat, something sort of involuntary and startled. Derek doesn’t call him on it. Stiles’ hands loose themselves from Derek’s chest, but they don’t leave. They just creep up toward his neck, then back down his arms to link their fingers together and he tugs. “Come back to bed?”

Derek can’t really deny him that. Can’t deny him anything. If he’s being honest with himself—and he might as well be at this point—he hasn’t been able to deny Stiles anything since the third or fourth time he came over to fuck him. Derek’s been steadily depositing a stupid amount of money into Stiles’ account, but in return he’s gotten something so much more precious, and he thinks maybe he’s being given the opportunity to take something more.

He’s just not sure he deserves it. He’s not sure he’s brave enough.

The sheets are cold, but the comforter is warm, and Derek curls up facing Stiles in the dark room. He thinks about flashing his eyes to see better, but instead just reaches out and traces a line down Stiles’ shoulder, over the crook of his elbow, inward toward his hip. He wants to brush over his chest, but the wound is still healing and he’s not sure it’ll hurt.

“Is it…” Stiles’ voice is full of a hesitation Derek is not used to hearing. “The scars,” he says, then clears his throat, but doesn’t go on.

Derek pushes his nose to Stiles’ shoulder, breathing him in, humming an inquiry. “The scars what?”

“Are they…” Stiles hesitates again, and fumbles for Derek’s hand, not speaking until their palms are pressed together. “I know what it’s like for wolves. When they…I mean I know they feel possessive and everything. Marking is kind of a big deal. Is that what they were doing? Ruining me for you?”

“Ruining,” Derek echoes, and then he catches on and his whole body goes flush with rage and shame. Rage at the Alphas for just how deeply they’ve affected Stiles. Shame because he should have been spending more time making sure Stiles understood this changes nothing. That these scars will just be another part of Stiles that Derek will love. Just like he loves the rest of him.

And shit. He might not have said that aloud, but admitting it to himself is a big enough step.

His throat is tight, but he forces himself to speak so Stiles isn’t left hanging. “Nothing is ruined. You could never,” he says, and chokes for a second. “Nothing will change how I feel about you.” He touches the scars then, lightly—not too light so it hurts, but not hard enough to tug at the healing wounds. “Every piece of you will always be beautiful.”

It’s probably the most real thing he’s spoken to anyone in a long time. It’s raw, ripped straight out of him, baring him open in front of this man who has given more to Derek in these last few years than anyone has.

Stiles’ breathing is still erratic, his heart pumping too fast, but he tugs Derek closer.

Derek isn’t sure this is going anywhere. Like the afternoon after the mountain ash and the confessions. It doesn’t. But that’s okay, he thinks. It’s okay because Stiles is here and he’s acknowledging what Derek’s said, how he feels, and he’s not pulling away.

It’s an offering, in a way.

Derek thinks he might be ready to take it.

\--- 

It happens in the shower. It happens unexpectedly. Derek’s halfway to soaping up his hair when the door slides open, and he turns. He’s startled, which never happens. He can’t recall the last time he was so lost in thought he missed someone sneaking into a room.

He finds himself helplessly charmed instead of terrified, and he’s certainly not going to turn Stiles away as he strips down and steps under the hot spray. Stiles is paying exactly no attention to Derek’s sudsy hair, and wastes exactly no time crowding him up against cold tiles. He hisses at the contact, but his mouth is then occupied by Stiles’.

He has only a second to acknowledge this is the first time they’ve really gotten their hands on each other without contract and payment and client/escort between them before Derek’s pretty much gone to it all. Stiles’ fingers are slender and bossy and _gorgeous_ as they start to take Derek apart inch by inch. They move over his collarbones, and grip at the nape of his neck, then push down until they reach his thick, coarse patch of hair around his cock which is laying hard and thick between them.

The strange thing is, this isn’t new, but it feels like a first. Not just a first between them without complications, but a first everything. Like everything about him has reverted to virgin and Stiles is rewriting his entire past.

He loves it. Fuck. He wants it.

He opens his mouth to Stiles and lets the other man devour him, push him, dominate him. Derek bares his neck and Stiles bites before roughly spinning him around and going to his knees, and licking right into the cleft of his ass.

Derek groans, pushes his forehead against the tiles hard so maybe the slight pain will distract him. It doesn’t, of course, and with a few swift tugs on his dick, he’s coming. His seed splatters the walls and drips down, marrying itself with the spray of water as it heads for the drain.

He’s gasping for breath, but he doesn’t let himself get too lost in the afterglow as he spins, as he takes Stiles and kisses him, his fingers thicker and clumsier than Stiles’ are, but no less determined to give him the orgasm he’s been craving all this time.

Derek licks at his neck, bites at him, moves his mouth down and down until he’s nipping at the edges of the gashes. They’re red and angry, but healing from Deaton’s salve, and they probably won’t even scar that much. But Derek’s going to put his scent all over them so when they do heal, they’ll heal with his saliva and his teeth, and they’ll be just as much his as every bit of Stiles.

It doesn’t take long. Derek twists his hand around the head of Stiles’ dick like he’s learned to do after all this time, and Stiles’ head falls back and he comes with a shout.

He collapses forward, and he’s breathing soft, though a little rapidly. He doesn’t put up a fight when Derek gives into his caregiver instincts and licks him, then washes him in his own soap to Stiles smells like him in every sense of the word.

They towel off together and get dressed. Derek makes something for lunch and Stiles dozes on the couch, and in spite of the captivity, it feels…nice.

Domestic.

Like maybe one day in the future they can choose something like this together, as a couple or…

Derek doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but with Stiles buried against his chest, and Derek’s arms holding him, he thinks that maybe the jump won’t end in a difficult landing.

\--- 

“What are we?”

“Existentially?” Derek asks, just to be a shit. He knows what Stiles is asking.

“Ha fucking ha,” Stiles says. “Do you want me to spell it out for you?”

Derek hums, shrugs. “If I stop paying you…”

“I’d quit,” Stiles says, and Derek’s heart takes a running leap off the metaphorical cliff of love and relationships that he’s been avoiding so damn long. “I get it. It’s not like I can fuck other people and come home to you and you won’t…”

“I could try,” Derek offers, and they both know it’s kind of a fruitless offer because yeah. He is who he is. His nature is what it is.

“Scott’s my platonic lifemate,” Stiles says carefully, stirring his spoon through the soup Derek made for that night’s dinner. “Like we kissed once or twice in high school to see if either of us were into it. Boys yes, each other, no.”

Derek huffs a laugh. He’s never met Scott—not yet, anyway—but this seems so much like the two of them.

“He’s with Kira, and they’re happy, and he still gets weirdly…weird when I come home smelling like more than one person.” Stiles sighs. “He respects it, respects my choices. I know you do too but…”

“I couldn’t live with it forever. There are ways to cover up the smell but…”

“I’m almost done with school. I was going to quit after,” Stiles says. “I also don’t think I’d enjoy it. Not after you and I…” He waves his spoon between the two of them, dripping soup on the table.

“So what are you saying?” Derek asks.

“That I’m willing to…do what needs to be done so I can be with you,” Stiles admits. “I stopped fucking other people like four dates into our thing. Because I liked you, and because I couldn’t stand the thought of you feeling like you meant less than you did. And because I’m the fucking worst at professionalism apparently because I broke the number one rule.”

“Which is?” Derek just wants to hear him say it.

“Don’t fall in love with your clients. Like fucking Julia Roberts…”

“I think you mean Vivian,” Derek says, then he’s up out of his seat and almost stalking toward Stiles who rises and lets Derek crowed him backward into the kitchen counter. “And this isn’t Pretty Woman.”

“No,” Stiles says. “I kissed you on the mouth on the first date.”

Derek huffs, pushes his nose against Stiles’ neck and scents him because he can’t stop, because Stiles loves him too, and wants this—wants all of it. He pulls back. “You kissed me, you made me laugh when no one could. You let this be uncomplicated. You were hurt, you were attacked and you’re still here and you still love me…”

“It’s going to take more than a few werewolf paper cuts to scare me off,” Stiles says, and his heartbeat screams, _honesty_ so loud it almost hurts.

Derek kisses him, then says, “We should have a picnic tomorrow outside.”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, okay. The illusion of freedom.”

“For now,” Derek says.

It’s been three days, and no word from his mother, but he supposes that it could be much worse.

\--- 

They pack a nice lunch in a wicker basket Derek finds in the basement. Stiles takes their fluffy comforter after promising to wash any pine needles from their excursion. They walk the perimeter for a while, and find a spot with the perfect balance of sun and shade.

The food is subpar, but the making out is great, and Derek thinks he can just lose himself in this moment.

It’s perfect.

It’s too perfect.

And the Universe has a sense of humor. A sadistic one.

One moment, Stiles’ tongue is mapping the inside of his mouth, the next, he’s got thousands of volts running through his body, and somewhere in the back of all that pain, Stiles is screaming.

Derek comes to just long enough to see a bag being forced over Stiles’ head. The volts hit him again, and everything goes black.

When he wakes up, Stiles’ scent is faded, and the tire tracks are cold. Derek pushes up against the barrier, but it’s in tact. It means the Alphas have a human on their side. It means Stiles could be dead soon.

He makes it to all fours, and his rage and grief and fear all roll into one as the howl erupts from his lungs. He knows from that sound, his mother will be only moments away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this so far! Sorry for the cliffhanger, but things are winding down with school so the next update should be pretty soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is pretty much the end, but there's going to be a short epilogue in a few days.
> 
> Be warned there's some violence and mentions of blood in this chapter, but no major character death, and no gore.

Derek comes to in fits and bursts, aching with the pain of being electrocuted, and profoundly aware of the emptiness because he can sense that Stiles isn’t with him. He’s not alone, though. The mountain ash line is broken, and he’s not at the cabin anymore. He’s in a bed, and he can feel his alpha near him, and the rest of the pack.

At one point he opens an eye and he’s staring at Erica who is giving him a flat look, annoyed and maybe tinged with some pity. He groans and his eyes shut, and he sleeps more.

It’s nearly dusk when he finally comes to for good. His body is healed and whatever the Alphas had done to him had worked its way out of his system. He sits up and he realizes he’s in the guest bedroom of his mother’s house. The room is empty, but he can hear the pack in the living room, and he can hear the slight up and down of his mother’s voice as she’s giving instruction.

Derek stands, winces at the stiffness in his muscles, flinches because his every instinct is to break free of this place, let his wolf free, and tear a hole through the city until he finds Stiles. He restrains the urge, but he’s unsurprised when the door creaks open and Boyd’s face appears.

“Your mother said you were awake.”

Derek scrubs a hand down his face and nods. “I’ll be right down.”

He’s shaking, he’s feeling unnerved and helpless which his wolf does not enjoy. But he manages to compose himself enough, and reminds himself that his mother—his Alpha—will have things handled. She will always take charge.

He breathes through what must be panic, and then opens the door and descends.

\---

In hindsight, Derek isn’t surprised to find Stiles’ best friend sitting in their living room, listening intently to all the information Talia has. But the moment Derek enters the room and smells unfamiliar alpha, his hackles rise and he’s bearing his teeth without realizing he’s doing it. Not until Laura touches his arm.

The other alpha handles it with grace—understands what Stiles is to Derek, and doesn’t react. But there’s tension in the room, and it’s only when Derek realizes the two strangers smell like the young child Stiles had been carrying with him that day at the café, that he allows himself to relax.

“I met your daughter,” he says by way of an olive branch.

The woman—Kira, the Kitsune—smiles. “Yeah, she told me all about the nice man and his muffin sharing skills.”

Derek feels himself blush, though he can’t bring himself to smile, not when Stiles is…well, God knows where, suffering through God knows what.

“We don’t think the Alpha Pack will truly hurt him,” Talia says, clasping her hands in front of her. “They’ve always sort of spit in the face of treaties, but they don’t want the hellfire it’ll rain down on them if they hurt a human.”

“So what are you saying?” Scott asks, unfailingly patient. “We call their bluff? Listen, I agree with you that I don’t _think_ they’ll take it that far, but Stiles is…I’m just not willing to take that risk.”

Derek understands that, feels it in his gut. “Neither am I,” he says.

Talia merely raises a brow at him. Derek can only guess what Talia knows about his relationship with Stiles. There’s a damn good chance she knows what he does, which means she knows how Derek met him. But there’s no judgement in her stare, and no scoffing when Derek makes it known how he feels.

“Then we go after him,” she says plainly.

“I won’t sit back this time,” Derek says, his fingers curling into his palm. “I can’t. I won’t let him…” His words fail him, but he sees his mother nod, and he feels almost violent relief rushing through him. “Do we have any idea where they are?”

Scott lets out a breath. “I’ve been contacted recently. They want to negotiate with me.”

“About?” Laura asks, using her diplomat voice.

Scott shrugs. “About joining their pack.”

Derek snarls inwardly, but not at Scott. It’s obvious the alpha has no intention of throwing his lot in with the Alpha Pack. “Why do they want you?”

The question is kind of rude, but Scott doesn’t seem to be bothered. “I’m a True Alpha,” he admits without ego. “My emissary thinks they want me to join so Deucalion can kill me and absorb my powers. Even if that wasn’t the case, I’ve seen how they operate. I’m not interested.”

Talia acknowledges this with a nod of her head. “Deucalion was a good man once. Or he had the potential to be. But I don’t think he can be reasoned with any longer.”

“So you’re saying this is a fight to kill,” Laura says.

Derek knows what that means. It means they’ll gather the pack—their best fighters—and they’ll take them on. Talia will issue a direct challenge for Stiles’ life, and people will die. More than likely, some of the Hale pack will die, even if they are victorious.

Derek feels his gut twist. He’s not sure Stiles will want to live with himself knowing that it was the exchange for his life that caused the death of people Derek cared about. Luckily his pack is never forced, it will only be those who volunteer, and Derek will be at the front lines.

“I’ll send a message out,” Talia says. “Scott, do you know how to reach Deucalion?”

“Yes,” he says, and reaches into his pocket for a business card.

Talia takes it, reads the address and phone number, and sighs. “We have no other choice.”

“We do,” Laura points out.

Talia takes one look at Derek, then shakes her head. “No, my darlings, we really don’t.”

Derek supposes if he were a better man, he’d be wracked with guilt. But he’s never pretended to be that—something he’s not. He just found his bravery, he just asked Stiles to be his. He’s not willing to give that up.

\---

More than anything, Derek wishes the fight was anti-climactic. He wishes it were one of those surprises—that Talia was able to talk sense into the pack, that Deucalion turned Stiles over and agreed to leave their territory.

Instead they walk in, flanked with members of other packs who volunteer—other packs looking to get one on Deucalion. There was a short, over the phone conference giving Talia permission to do this. The Alpha Pack has been terrorizing wolves all over the country. It was a unanimous vote, really. Talia has permission to kill, and other wolves show up within hours.

Deucalion answered the summons with a laugh, sent a picture of Stiles beaten and tied to a chair.

Laura contacts the hunters to let them know what’s happening, and then they leave.

The abandoned train station is a good a place as any to have the battle. It’s empty, full of rusted, broken metal, and far away from humans that it’s likely there won’t be any unsuspecting casualties. Derek stands behind his mother, slightly behind his sister who is shoulder-to-shoulder with Scott. His wolf form—his full wolf—is humming under the surface.

Deucalion stands flanked by the other alphas, claws out, half-wolfed at any given time. Derek can smell Stiles somewhere, but he can’t see him, and it’s making him want to rip, and tear, and kill. It won’t be long.

Talia gives Deucalion one last chance, but the alpha just laughs at her. “You used to be stronger than this. The Talia Hale I know would have never allowed some pathetic, weak human to bring her to her end.”

She just smiles serenely. “Then it’s clear you never knew the real me.”

The air shimmers, she transforms. Derek and Laura are right behind her, and the battle begins.

\---

Derek’s too deep in his wolf form to remember much with a human mind. Just skin beneath him, and being thrown against concrete—and pain. So much pain. But there’s also victory as blood spurts under his jaws. He rips and tears, and feels more than one heartbeat under his fangs slow, then stop.

He’s got gaping wounds, though, and he won’t last much longer. He’s not sure how many—if any, have died. Erica fought until she couldn’t remain conscious, and Derek has a fleeting memory of Boyd in his beta form, dragging her from the room, likely at Talia’s insistence. Laura is still going strong with Kali—the only one left standing apart from Deucalion who is locked in his huge, hulking, abomination of an alpha form.

Derek isn’t sure how many of the Alpha Pack are dead, or just beaten into submission, but he doesn’t care anymore. He just wants Stiles. He can’t do anything else here, so he just goes. He shifts into his beta form, and he follows the scent of blood, and terror, and human until he finds a van with huge dents in the side.

He’s bleeding and weak, but it takes no effort at all to rip the door from the hinges. Stiles is lying on the floor. He smells like drugs and something sour—pain and vulnerability. But his eyes lock on Derek and his whole body goes lax as Derek takes him into his arms and immediately begins to leach his pain.

“Don’t. You’re hurt,” Stiles gasps.

“So are you,” Derek says, and holds him tighter. “I’ll heal.”

“Me too, big guy. It’ll just take me a few days longer.”

Derek snorts, feels an almost violent rush of affection as he buries his nose in the top of Stiles’ hair. He can hear the fight winding down. Talia is weak now, but Deucalion is weaker.

There’s the sound of her shift, of her claws, of Deucalion’s heart stopping.

Derek still isn’t sure who lived and who died, only that Talia appears a few minutes later with Scott by her side. He sees Scott sag in relief as Derek scoops Stiles to his chest. He’s supported on either side as Scott claws through the ropes binding Stiles, and they’re quickly rushed to the car. Deaton will be waiting at home, with salves and treatments and something for the pain.

Derek can’t let himself relax just yet, but he’s on his way. Stiles pressing against him on the drive there means home, means safety—means mate and pack and…and future. His eyes close, and for a moment, he lets himself rest.

\--- 

They’re both fairly in and out during their treatment. They’re in the same room, which is the only way Derek will allow anyone to touch him. The Hale pack lost no one, and only one casualty on their side at the hands of an alpha named Ennis who died shortly after. 

Derek wants to know, of course, he wants to know what happened, and if everyone else is okay, and that no one will have lasting injuries. But for now, he takes comfort in being released to Stiles’ side. Stiles, who is occupying a guest room in the Hale’s home, next door to Derek’s childhood bedroom. He’s asleep, and IV hooked to his arm with saline—or so Deaton assured him.

“They gave him a lot of drugs to keep him docile. This will help flush him out and when he wakes, he’ll be alright.”

Derek clings to those last three words as he closes the door after the emissary and lets himself fall into the bed. Stiles doesn’t wake, but he does unconsciously turn toward Derek and snuffle against him. It’s something—it’s more than something. Derek just lets himself feel it.

\--- 

He wakes again, this time because Stiles’ breathing fell out of a sleep pattern, and his eyes open to find honey brown ones staring at him. He can’t help the breath it punches out of his lungs, seeing Stiles alive and safe and lying next to him. Derek reaches out to touch, just because he can. The pads of his fingers brush along Stiles’ jaw, his lips, the curve of his neck to reassure his wolf that it’s over.

“How do you feel?” Derek asks.

Stiles huffs a laugh and his voice is slightly hoarse, but no worse for the wear. “I’ve been better, but they didn’t rough me up too badly. They just…didn’t like it when I got mouthy.”

Derek rolls his eyes and wants to berate him, wants to say that Stiles’ mouth is going to be the death of him some day, but he can’t bring himself to joke like that. Not yet. It’s still too fresh.

“Deucalion is dead,” Stiles says. “You were asleep when your mom came in here to let you know. She said the Alpha Pack is disbanded and Kali is standing trial.”

Derek closes his eyes, lets him feel that. It’s not entirely good. It never feels entirely good to lose a werewolf—even if he was some megalomaniac hell-bent on taking Derek’s family apart. It’s a weird juxtaposition, but he’s made peace with it. This isn’t the first time Talia had to dispatch the life of someone threatening those she loved.

“Your mom is kind of terrifying, by the way,” Stiles says, and lets his hand—which is still shaking a little—brush through Derek’s hair. “She invited me to dinner, but it wasn’t exactly an invite more than it was…”

“A command?” Derek asks. When Stiles nods, he laughs and rolls toward Stiles, happy to note the IV is gone and Stiles’ arms are free to wrap tightly around him. “That’s not even an Alpha thing. That’s an overbearing mother thing. You don’t get used to it, but you eventually learn to accept it.”

Stiles laughs, noses through the top of Derek’s hair and says, “Well, I’ll take it. I like her.”

Derek smiles against the front of Stiles’ chest, then shifts to press his nose up against his neck, scenting him without shame. “You’re alright.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement as he forces himself to acknowledge that for a little while, Stiles was not alright.

“I am,” Stiles says, even though it’s pretty obvious he knows why Derek is saying that out loud. “And you can relax, babe. I’m not running away.”

“You should,” Derek mutters with a huff, though he tightens his grip anyway.

Stiles giggles quietly. “Run away from what? The entirety of the California Wolves coming to my rescue?”

Derek wants to remind him they had motivation to go after Deucalion, and if he’d been a wolf who hadn’t put their packs in danger, most of them wouldn’t have cared if some random human had died. But there’s some truth to it, because Derek’s pack had gone after Deucalion for Stiles—or partly for him, anyway. Which means that he might not be pack yet, but he will be.

“I don’t want you to go,” Derek says.

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

Derek lifts his head, allows himself to look at Stiles’ eyes, to take in the bruising and the pain and remind himself that he hadn’t done good enough to protect the man he loved, but he wouldn’t make that mistake again. Then he cups Stiles’ cheek and brings their lips together.

It’s far from frantic, far from heat and desire like most of their kisses had been. And Derek’s not going to fool himself any longer—he knows it’s been way too damn long since their kisses were client-escort kisses. They crossed a line almost two full years ago, whether or not they admit it. But this is different than even that.

It’s a kiss full of promise, full of a future they’re allowing themselves to have. Derek can’t promise the end to danger. Wolves have mostly stopped fighting like this—it’s mostly saved for the boardroom. But they are what they are—and their nature won’t always be denied. And there will be more threats in the future.

But he thinks—no, he _knows_ , that he’s stronger like this, stronger with Stiles in his arms.

When he pulls back, Stiles is holding one cheek in his hand which isn’t shaking anymore, and his gaze is steady, intense, full of purpose. “Hey, Der.”

“Yeah?” Derek says, very softly.

“I love you.”

Derek allows himself a smile, a real, full smile which he reserves for the rarer moments in his life. Like this one. Like knowing the man he’s unabashedly, unrestrainedly dedicated himself to, loves him back. He kisses him for a long moment, then mutters against his lips, “I love you too.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue, short and very briefly beta'd so any glaring mistakes, feel free to let me know.

Stiles is at the large table in his mother’s favorite board room at the head of the table with Scott and Kira’s daughter on his lap. He’s got an empty black folder in front of him, hands folded, and she’s babbling and waving her chubby little finger, and Stiles is nodding like it’s the most serious conversation in the world.

“You heard her. Ten million or we rescind the offer, Mr. Bond. Ten. Million.”

“Tem million!” she echoes.

Derek chuckles, and Stiles tilts back in the chair, head hanging backward to grin at Derek. He looks good like this—silly and ridiculous, holding a baby without a care in the world. It’s giving Derek _ideas_ about a future, about…well maybe about bending him over and fucking him on the table when Scott comes to get his kid. And then maybe about wedding rings and adoption papers and…things Derek had never let himself think about before.

Not now, of course. Not even soon. Stiles is exploring a new career and possibly a Ph.D. and a life outside of what he was doing before. And Derek is trying to get off shaky legs and be a self-starter, and braver because for the first time he has something to be brave for.

It’s not long until they’re alone again—this time in Derek’s office instead of a conference room, and he’s perfectly okay with that. Mostly because he knows the blinds shut tight, and the door lock actually works, and his secretary will keep out any unwanted visitors. It’s the perfect opportunity to push Stiles against the door and sink to his knees, to swallow his cock and keep swallowing until Stiles is cursing and digging fingers into his hair and coming so hard it sounds like it _hurts_.

Derek doesn’t last beyond the friction in his dress pants, so incredibly turned on by Stiles losing control that he doesn’t even try to hold it back. He palms himself, rubs once, twice, and he gets off. Stiles is staring down at him with his lips parted and eyes wide like can’t believe it happened.

“Wow. You seriously like me.”

Derek rolls his eyes as he pushes to his feet, ignoring the sticky feeling in his crotch as he palms Stiles’ cheek and kisses him softly. “I seriously do,” he indulges.

Stiles sighs, wraps his arms around Derek’s waist, holds him close. It’s only been a few months since the Alphas, since everything almost went to hell. Everyone’s mostly recovered, and Stiles is sketching out a tattoo he wants to get to cover the scars left behind by Alpha claws. They don’t live together—not technically, but Derek hasn’t spent the night alone since pulling Stiles from that van and clutching him close to his body. He wants to keep it that way.

He’s still just a beta. Still just a middle child, and a little bit of a disaster, and a possessive asshole. But he’s also in love and he’s holding this perfect, gorgeous, amazing man in his arms and he has exactly zero plans to let go.

Stiles maybe knows this. Derek can read the knowledge in the way Stiles’ eyes shine, and the way the right side of his mouth quirks up higher than the left with his grin, and the way he clings just a little tighter and whispers how much he loves and wants Derek into the warm skin on his neck.

And maybe the way he says, “We should go home,” and means the space they’ve been sharing together.

Like it’s theirs.

A promise for a future, and a lot more.

Derek’s absolutely okay with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say a big thanks to everyone who read and commented and sent kudos. It made writing in this fandom so worth it! Thank you so much.


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